


How to Shut Ray Up

by codswallop



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad finds a way to stop the unstoppable mouth of Corporal Person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Shut Ray Up

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】How to Shut Ray Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462759) by [sandy9ice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandy9ice/pseuds/sandy9ice)



> Contains homophobic slurs in dialogue, many of them, and some casual xenophobia and sexism, too (in the context of soldierly shit-slinging; nothing worse than in canon). 
> 
> Many thanks to ariadnes_string for encouragement and beta-reading!

Ray’s been overdoing it with the Ripped Fuel again and is favoring them with another installment of his serial monologue called One Thousand and One Creative Ways to Kill Saddam. He’s up to number 287 now, and Brad might just lose his mind completely this time, he thinks. He shuts his eyes for a moment and sees himself grabbing Person by the scruff of his scrawny neck and smashing his nose into the steering wheel, once, twice, three times, as many as it takes. 

Instead, eyes still closed, he merely says, “Shut up, Person.”

“Something like a giant octopus with remote-control razor blades embedded in all its tentacles,” Ray goes on, ignoring him completely. “And it’d stuff the tentacles up into every one of his orifices, and then you’d press the kill button and it’d just shred him from the inside out. I saw something like that in a fucking bizarro Japanimation movie once, I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a porno or a snuff film. The Japanese are some sick-ass fuckers. I met this girl once who--”

Brad would be less disturbed by this conversation if he couldn’t practically smell Trombley getting a hard-on over it in the back seat. And Rolling Stone pissing himself with glee while he takes avid notes on the whole thing. “ _Shut up_ , Person,” Brad says again, and this time something in his voice gets the message through, finally, and there’s sweet, sweet silence from the driver’s seat. 

For ten minutes.

*

He can be an entertaining little fuck to have around, it’s true; it's not just his radio skills that made Brad want him for his team. The singing is fun sometimes. Keeps them awake. And the stream of bullshit he can spew when he gets going--the river, the _Niagara Falls_ of bullshit that emanates from his mouth, the way it just goes and goes and goes--it’s funny at first and then you want to strangle him and then after a while it’s funny again just because you can’t believe he’s still at it. You want to egg him on to see how long he can possibly keep it up. And then suddenly you want to put his face through the steering column. 

*

Jacking him off doesn’t do it. 

“Holy fuck that’s good, oh, right there, Brad, _shit_ you’ve got good hands, man, I’m gonna-- _oh._ Fuck yeah, almost-- _yes_ \--oh, ahhh. Ah, that, that right there, my friend, is one thing I’m gonna miss when I get back to civilization. Chicks suck at hand jobs, did you ever notice that? It takes a fucking Recon Marine do the job right. Maybe it’s all the weapons we handle, or just the size difference, I don’t even know, but--ow, ow, fuck, Colbert, what did you do that for?”

Brad has just bitten his ear to get him to quiet down. Bad choice: Ray’s ear is as filthy as the rest of him, and the taste stays with him for fucking hours, much longer than the post-jack glow.

*

Making Ray blow him would probably do it--and Ray would blow him, maybe, possibly, if Brad got him a little bit drunk, or if Brad could get him on his own somewhere after they’d just seen some action and still had the adrenalin buzz going strong. Brad can feel it in the muscles of his own face, the way he’d look down at Ray when he’d ask--no, _command_ , even better--command him to kneel down and open up. He can see in his mind the way Ray wouldn’t look at him but would cast his eyes down instead, dark and a little confused. He can almost hear the quiet choking noises Ray would make around Brad’s cock, feel the wet slide of thin tight lips around him as he’d dip himself in and out of that infuriating, unstoppable mouth.

Brad has a few good jacks while turning that particular fantasy of Ray-silence over in his mind. He wouldn’t, though, even if he could. He’s been in his MOPP as long as everyone else has out here; his cock is _rank_. He still has some basic hygiene standards, after all. 

*

Brad finally finds Ray’s off switch completely by accident one day. They’re wrestling in the dirt at Ad Diwaniyah, a bunch of them horsing around with their shirts off, Walt and Rudy and everyone, with Trombley pretending not to watch in horrified disgust and Poke making his sarcastic little eye-rolling comments from afar. They’re not even playing gay, they’re like--making fun of themselves for playing gay, something, parody of a parody--whatever, it’s fun, and Brad’s in a good mood. They’re all here. They all made it here, his whole team. He wants to roll all over them in a big pile, he wants to hang his arm around their necks and lick and bite and punch and pinch--

There’s this funny little cut-off yelp, that’s all, and Brad doesn’t even know who it is until he looks up and sees Ray’s face, shaken and a little pale. “Time out, hold up. Person, you all right?”

Ray looks at him like he’s gone all Captain America on them. “Fine,” he says. 

Just “fine,” not “Fine, you overgrown cotton-topped ass-grabbing faggot,” so something’s definitely up, but Brad lets it go for now. 

He can still feel it, the nub of Ray’s nipple between his thumb and finger like a satisfying little pebble. He’d only tweaked it, he thinks. Maybe harder than he’d meant to.

He goes to look for Ray later on while everyone else is still at chow, and finds him way over on the other side of the encampment, in the space they’d set up as a gym with punching bags and mats. “Hey,” Brad says, catching hold of the bag Ray’s been taking half-hearted shots at. “Did I hurt you, before? When we were fucking around?"

“What? No!” Ray’s eyebrows draw together, dark, with an angry little crease in the middle. “What are you _talking_ about. No.” He hits the bag again. Brad watches, looking carefully at his range of motion, assessing him. Ray’s been quiet lately. Not just today. Ever since Baghdad, really. It’s not a relief the way he thought it would be. Makes him want Ray to run his mouth again so Brad can shut him up: that’s the way it’s supposed to work.

“Let me see.” Brad rests a hand on Ray’s lower back as a brief warning before lifting up his t-shirt.

“You fucking pansy,” Ray says, pulling away, but he whips the shirt off over his head and tosses it down and then spreads his arms, displaying his chest defiantly. “See? No boo-boos. I swear to God, Colbert, you’re like some kind of sick cross between a mother hen and a leech, the way you act with your entire team, the way you--oh, _fuck,_ ” he cuts off as Brad takes a step closer and takes Ray’s left nipple gently between two fingertips. 

“Interesting,” Brad says, watching Ray’s face as he presses a little harder. His eyes are shut, his jaw is clenched, and he looks like he’s in pain, but Brad is pretty sure he’s not. The opposite of pain, maybe. “You’re just really sensitive there, aren’t you?” He scrapes his thumbnail lightly over the spot, and Ray’s mouth drops right open; after a moment a whisper of sound comes out, a squeaky-pitched _ah?_

Brad can’t help but grin.

Then Ray catches his wrist and jerks it down, pushing him off. He looks furious. “What are you doing?”

Brad shrugs, unfazed. “Nothing, if you don’t want me to,” he says, and walks away.

*

“Here’s the thing,” Ray whispers, waking him up that night by climbing right in with him wearing nothing but his skivvies, flopping down practically on top of him in the corner Brad’s claimed for his bunk spot. “I don’t do a lot of gay shit, so you’re going to have to teach me how it’s done, because apparently you do. Did your girlfriend back home know you were a homo, by the way? You weren’t boning your best friend, were you, the one she left you for--was it some kind of queer triangle situation, or--oh, wait, is that what _turned_ you gay? Yeah, yeah, I’m seeing it now, and then you went and joined the Marines so you could-- Oh.”

Brad has just pinched him, not gently, right nipple this time, and it works just like a goddamn mute button. He rolls it between thumb and finger for a minute, listening to Ray breathe in gasping little hitches, then lets go of it and touches himself in the same spot experimentally. It feels okay. Kind of weird. Everyone’s wired up different, he guesses. 

“--So you could hang out 24/7 around all these ripped male bodies, that’s what I’m thinking. And none of us can get any pussy out here, so you’d have a better chance of _aah!_ ” Ray’s voice goes high and sharp again as Brad shifts down a bit and fastens his mouth on his nipple, applying suction for a moment and then giving it a gentle, lingering bite, pulling at it with his teeth.

“Fuck,” Ray whimpers, very quietly, grinding up hard at Brad’s hipbone. Brad sucks at him again and then flicks with his tongue, fast-fast-fast and then a slow flickering tickle, and Ray makes a broken little sound and comes, straining and squirming against him. Brad can’t quite believe it until he reaches down to feel the warm wetness on his shorts.

“Yeah, _I’m_ the homo,” he tells Ray in a near-silent whisper against the shell of his ear. “Fuck you, Person. Finish what you started.” He grabs Ray’s hand and guides it to the front of his briefs, where Ray’s fingers find their way inside the opening quickly enough. He can’t believe they’re doing this. They’re right out in the open, although that’s part of it, probably--the thrill of _we could get caught, any fucking second here_ is as close as they can get to the combat rush for now. It doesn’t take much, anyhow, just skin against hot skin and the memory of Ray’s swallowed-down urgent moan in the dark. Perfection.

*

So that’s how you do it, although it’s not very useful knowledge after all, Brad figures, especially now that they're stuck here in limbo--and even if they weren't, it’s not as if he could exactly reach across the front seat of the Humvee and tease his RTO’s nips whenever he got a little too wound up.

He _can_ sidle over and put a hand on Ray’s shoulder when he finds him in the tank repair yard staring moodily off into space, though, and lean down and tell him, very quietly and right in his ear, “You know what I’d do, if it weren’t against regs? I’d get you pierced. Two tiny little stainless-steel barbells, or maybe rings, like the pole dancers in titty bars have back home, and I’d tie a string to one of them so I could just fucking tweak it whenever you get to running your mouth or singing one of those bullcrap country-fed songs of yours about cowboys and shit.”

“Brad Colbert has been to titty bars? Oh, you sweet-talking homosexual, tell me more,” Ray says, but he has to swallow before he can get the words out, Brad notices.

*

For the rest of that afternoon, Ray sings snatches of country songs under his breath while they work out, with only an occasional wicked glance over at his team leader. Brad, pretending not to notice, has to fight hard not to smile. He mostly loses.


End file.
